


Bleach ficlets

by totally_absurd



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, M/M, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totally_absurd/pseuds/totally_absurd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bleach short stories that are shorter than 1k words. Since there were two already, I decided to post them together.</p><p>1. GrimmIchi (if you squint). "He wonders why it had never bothered him before. And then wonders again why it does now when it's already too late."<br/>2. Gin/Rangiku."He comes like a thief on a starless night, stealing your will and breath away"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Living soul

**Author's Note:**

> Short, introspective, but hopeful. And my Grimmjow is a surprising sap.

He wonders why it had never bothered him before. And then wonders again why it does now when it's already too late.

His life was a path of single minded purposes. Survive. Become stronger. Become an Espada. Beat Kurosaki. And then that last one again and again, like a festering wound, gnawing at him, eating him from inside out.

That kid is infuriating, and he always managed to make Grimmjow's blood boil like not even Ulquiorra ever will.

It's his obnoxious orange hair, though Grimmjow supposes he's really got no room to talk about outrageous hair colors. It's his single minded determination to protect, to fight, to become stronger, and the fact that they are so similar, that Sexta sometimes sees the gleam of his own insanity in those narrowed brown eyes. And most of all, it's that this arrogant human brat makes Grimmjow feel alive where nothing ever had.

Him. The dead, a spirit, a specter. A hollow being that's not supposed to want anything but to consume those around him. And Kurosaki makes him want. Makes him doubt everything that was previously set in stone, makes his goals waver, his priorities shift.

He was never very loyal to Aizen, nor was he obedient. The man came to them with fake smiles painted on his face, erecting that fake sky over their heads. He promised endless glory and just as endless supply of souls to consume. He promised a new world for hollows to roam free and no threat of shinigami. He gave them new form and new purpose. Something like the life, they forgot they've ever had.

But he  _was_  a shinigami and while demanding loyalty without questions, was loyal to no one but himself. It never bothered Grimmjow, though. This was a hollow world after all, its main rule – eat or be eaten, and Aizen fit here perfectly as a predator he is.

And then came Kurosaki Ichigo and brought with him a taste of something that was startlingly similar to freedom that Aizen so easily promised, but never actually gave.

He wanted that taste. Wanted to feel it on his tongue, to sink his teeth inside and drink until the light went out in that soul splitting gaze. And yet when that actually happened all he felt was an all consuming fury.

How dare Kurosaki die by someone else's hand? It was Grimmjow's privilege and his alone to tear a hole through his chest. Ulquiorra would pay for taking what did not belong to him, but first he needed to get back what was taken and that was exactly what he had done.

Only to have it bite him in the ass harder than ever.

So now he lies in the cradle of the gritty sand that burns his wounds and crunches on his teeth, asking himself questions that would probably never be answered.

And it's all Kurosaki's fault. If he had just killed the brat that first time around, none of this would be happening. He would still be happily slicing through shinigami in Aizen's name, aiding the goal he knows nothing about. Not seeking answers for something that never even bothered him before.

He feels the last vestiges of life seep from his wounds and thinks that he's actually hoping that Kurosaki would win this war. The black is creeping to the edges of his vision and he knows that he probably will.

Because he's the life. The fire. And all that is worth fighting for.

Because he can make hollows feel human and someone with that kind of ability will undoubtedly tear through anything that stands in his way.

And it's almost ironic that a hollow spirit Grimmjow Jeaguerjaques feels the most alive on the verge of his death. But then again that's all Kurosaki's doing, so he should not be surprised that much.

The black has eaten through almost everything now and it's actually a nice contrast to the stark white that Aizen has drowned them in. Black is a shinigami color, but in Grimmjow's mind it belongs to Kurosaki and for some reason that's a comforting thought.

Fatigue is taking over, the remaining tiny bit of his vision becomes blurry, leaving him blind.

_This is the end_ , Grimmjow thinks. And the last thing he sees is an eerie orange glow.

And a calloused hand is gripping his bloody fingers.


	2. Contradiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gin/Rangiku. Can you imagine, I've been sitting on this thing for a month. It's less than 500 words, can't believe it took me so long to post it. But it's my baby, and though I know it's not perfect, I love it anyway.

Like a sudden wind he comes without a warning and goes leaving only chaos behind. Like breeze he's evanescent, but more destructive than any hurricane known to a man.

Like a whisper in the dark he's full of secrets that spike delicious fear into your blood and fill your mind with never ending questions.

His touch, like silk, is fleeting and thus more painful than a twisting knife through the heart.

His voice is a caress to your senses one moment and sharp ice burning them the next. He is your eternal damnation and your key to the heaven's gate. He is the man who put you together to help you climb out of the dirt and broke your heart to pieces leaving them exactly there to be stomped on.

He comes like a thief on a starless night, stealing your will and breath away.

Turning your bed into a mess of sheets and sweat, a sign of a nightmare or passion-filled illusion. And you're nothing but a mess of yes and no, yearning and terrified at the same time.

His touch is electricity to your nerve endings, his hand almost glowing against your skin. It' white as snow and hot as fire and in a moment of sudden panic you wonder if those burns will scar, but you know the only scars you'll have will be those on the inside, where no one can see.

His eyes are aquamarines shining in the dark, his hair the silver casing. They run the length of your body that writhes on the stark white sheets, tracing every curve and bump with an almost loving caress. They pierce through your very being, pinning you to the feather-like mattress like a helpless butterfly.

It's hypnotic - this dance of pain and pleasure, of love and something that is worse than hate.

Every word, his lips whisper, makes your body tense like a tightly drawn string, and you're a violin he plays with his skilled fingers keening and crying into the night.

Your corn colored hair wounds around his fingers as those deceitful lips descend on yours. Their taste is a poison of the sweetest kind, the one that brings rapture before imminent death. And you welcome its bitter sweetness into your blood, just like you welcome him into your heart, only for it to be broken.

And even this in itself is a contradiction.

Because he's yours with everything he has to give, sharp words on the poisonous tongue and smiles that never tell the truth and love so honest and utterly consuming that it threatens to swallow you – body and soul.

He's yours for tonight, but not tomorrow.

Because he loves you, but not enough to stay.


End file.
